


do you want a taste? (you know I do)

by girlsarewolves



Series: exchanges [55]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, Crying, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Minor Violence, Safehouses, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, UST, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29682807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlsarewolves/pseuds/girlsarewolves
Summary: It all feels surreal, like a dream come true - and therefore too good to be true. Even though she’s still uneasy around Sandor Clegane and his surly demeanor and that hungry look she’s glimpsed in his eyes the few times she’s caught him watching her, it’s a welcome alternative to her life as a hostage fiancee to Joffrey. Every mile between them and the Lannisters is a relief to her, and though she isn’t certain what sparked this change of heart in their vampire guard dog, she’s grateful for it.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: exchanges [55]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1269893
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9
Collections: Proximity Flash





	do you want a taste? (you know I do)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CorinaLannister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorinaLannister/gifts).



> To CorinaLannister - I really liked your tags and decided to go with a merger of "Vampire and a human in an enclosed space together" and "Bunker - Trapped inside together because its dangerous outside". I hope you like what I came up with!

* * *

“We’ll wait out the day here. Get some rest, little bird.” Clegane barely spares her a glance as he grunts out the words with a stiffness that gives away his failed attempt at speaking to her with a gentleness he’s unused to.

Sansa appreciates the effort all the same. She’s shaken and exhausted, the scent of smoke and death clinging to her clothes like stubborn stains. Her body feels fatigued from the crash of her adrenaline, all that fear and hope running high during the raid on the Lannister estate, then finding Clegane in her room, the heavy uncertainty of his intentions before their risky and desperate escape.

It all feels surreal, like a dream come true - and therefore too good to be true. Even though she’s still uneasy around Sandor Clegane and his surly demeanor and that hungry look she’s glimpsed in his eyes the few times she’s caught him watching her, it’s a welcome alternative to her life as a hostage fiancee to Joffrey. Every mile between them and the Lannisters is a relief to her, and though she isn’t certain what sparked this change of heart in their vampire guard dog, she’s grateful for it.

So she doesn’t protest or question him yet, merely nods and looks around the underground safe-house he’d brought her to. Takes in the sparse and spartan furnishings, all very practical and clinical. Blood Bags in a small refrigerator, a few cots at the far end, weapons and medical supplies lining one wall, security monitors on the other. The monochrome look of the room makes it feel like a prison cell, but she’s already more relaxed here than she’d been in her room at the Lannister-Baratheon mansion for months.

_Ever since Father…_

Sansa closes her eyes to shut out the awful memories of the past year. Not tonight. If her mind wanders that far back tonight, she’ll wind up in tears, and she refuses to cry and simper in front of Clegane - especially now that they are on the run, and he is risking his life for her.

Sandor Clegane is a vampire that knew all too well the harsh punishment of exposure to the sun. The right side of his face still bears the scars.

“The door to the left leads to the bathroom. There’s a shower and some basics in there if you want,” Sandor tells her while taking a few bags from the mini-fridge. He keeps his back to her. He’d shown her his fangs once, in a fit of anger caused by memories of his brutal brother and the day he saw the sun, but ever since she can’t shake the feeling he’s gone out of his way to hide his true nature from her. 

Does he think she is unable to handle it? Even after everything she’s suffered at the hands of Joffrey and his family and their other enforcers?

“Thank you,” Sansa replies softly. She doesn’t dare speak her thoughts or ask him further questions. Part of her wants to stay, wants to watch him drink and see Sandor - see him in a way she hasn’t yet - wants to ask him questions and cling to the security blanket that is his presence close to her. Instead she turns and crosses the distances to the door, slipping silently into the just as clinical and spartan bathroom. The door clicks shut and her legs give out. Crumpled on the floor, Sansa finds she can’t hold back the sobs that have been waiting for a chance to release. She covers her mouth to muffle any noise that comes from her - though with his heightened hearing, she’s no doubt Sandor can hear her - and stops struggling against the flood of emotions.

Relief, fear, gratitude, uncertainty - they all rush her in equal measure, vying for attention and domination over her mental state. Her body shakes as she continues to cry, so overwhelmed by the past year and this night especially.

Sansa had thought she was doomed to remain in Joffrey’s possession until her death, and the truth be told, she had been expecting that to come much sooner than later. Every day she walked on a precipice, every word and every action a step along the edge. One false move, and she would suffer the same fate as her poor father.

Once upon a time, being a human engaged to a fae noble was exciting and romantic, an impossible wish coming true for her. Then she learned why her mother and her tutor had often warned her that the fair folk were not as gallant and divine as the stories made them seem. Of course there were wicked fae, she had learned of the Unseelie Court as well as Seelie, but Joffrey was Seelie and the son of her father’s lifelong friend, one indebted to him for his aid. Surely it would work out perfectly!

Oh, what a fool she had been.

Eventually, Sansa’s eyes run dry. Depleted of energy from her sobbing fit, she can do little more than lay collapsed on the floor. The shower stall calls to her though, promising her comfort and relief if she can just get her body over there. Unsteady and shaky, Sansa rises up to her feet - gripping the door handle to help pull herself up. As she steps towards the stall she keeps one hand on the wall for extra balance.

 _The warm water will do me good,_ she tells herself. _I can wash away the Lannister-Baratheon feud from my body, scrub off the proper fiancee I’ve had to pretend to be, and come back out Sansa of House Stark, of the humans blessed by the ancient wolf spirits for our loyalty to them and their forests._

By the time Sansa emerges from the bathroom, she feels like a new person - or perhaps, she feels like who she used to be. Her body is still wracked with exhaustion, but the fear and unease have abated, the anxiety and adrenaline feel distant. Even putting on the same clothes doesn’t dampen the feelings of rejuvenation.

Sandor glances over when she steps out - briefly - and then focuses back on the security monitors he’s sitting in front of. “...you all right, little bird?” The words have the same stilted, stiff quality from earlier. There’s even less gruffness this time around.

“Yes. Thank you. I feel much better.” Sansa smiles at him to affirm what she’s saying, even though he isn’t looking her way anymore. She stands there, hovering just outside of the bathroom, for several moments before finally walking closer to him. “If you heard me crying, it wasn’t because of you. It was because of everything. Much of my tears were ones of relief and gratitude, even.”

A scoff shakes Clegane before his gruffness returns in full force as he asks, “Gratitude?”

Sansa tenses, her reflexes trained over the past several months to back down, try to placate, figure out where she went wrong and correct it quickly. She swallows and closes her eyes, because she isn’t a child anymore - not in her mind or soul and not even by law now - and this isn’t Joffrey, this is Sandor.

“You don’t make sense.” The words come out shaky but calm, and Sansa is proud that she doesn’t sound meek or terrified.

This time it is Sandor rendered stiff by her words, and for a long moment he is silent and does nothing beyond staring blankly at the security feed before him. “What was that, little bird?” Whether the words are a warning or an offended question is hard to tell.

Sansa decides to give him the benefit of the doubt. “I said, you do not make sense. You came to my room and told me you would take me far away and keep me safe, and I took you up on that promise. Now you seem confused or offended or just plain scornful that I feel gratitude for your actions. How does that make sense?”

In an instant - faster than that, too fast for her to track his movements - Clegane is up and has her pinned uncomfortably against the steel table where his things are laid out. One hand wraps around her neck, his fingers long enough that they completely encircle it. His face is twisted in a scowl, the burnt tissue of his face even angrier looking than normal. “Did you once stop to think that my intentions were less than pure? Amidst that gratitude that had you weeping like a child, did you not feel fear that I might decide to join you in there? Or pounce on you once you were out?” The words are practically growled at her and drip with derision and mockery and - or maybe she’s only imagining it - confusion.

Terror floods her, and while Sansa knows he can smell it - confirmed when his nostrils flare - she manages to keep her expression schooled into a mask of calm. “You did neither of those things,” she states. Her voice is tight from his grip on her throat, but steady, perhaps the steadiest it’s been the entire night.

Despite the fear that he so clearly wants her to feel in this moment, somehow Sansa knows that this is the bark and growl and hackles raised of a frightened animal that is doing everything to scare away strangers - everything except biting.

Sandor’s scowl deepens, tugging at his damaged flesh. “Night’s not over yet,” he tosses back. His voice is full of disbelief and bereft of venom. “What if I decide you’d be so much tastier than the farmed, stale blood in those bags? Hhm? What then, little bird? Perhaps I keep you as my personal blood bag, warm and fresh whenever I get a craving.”

Whatever possesses Sansa to reply, “Go ahead,” she isn’t sure. Maybe she feels indebted to Sandor, and that seems a fair price for taking her far away from Joffrey. Maybe her brain is telling her that logically, it means he would keep her around and alive for longer than if she served no purpose. Or maybe it seems a better alternative than the other possibilities of him using her he’d thrown at her.

Maybe part of her was curious. Maybe she just didn’t care.

Sandor stares at her. His scowl is gone, replaced by a strange look that doesn’t suit him. He seems genuinely horrified by her response, and his hand loosens around her neck. “Little bird…”

Has the adrenaline come back? Sansa feels strange. Braver than she felt earlier. Daring even. Her head tilts to the side, her eyes never leaving his. “Do you want a taste? We’ll be here all day, and the days are long. Might as well. I won’t fight.” The words come easily, without thought or intent. They just come. Sansa feels a strange sort of relief in running with this moment, this strange tension that’s always been between them now turned up to maximum.

There’s hesitation, a conflict written plainly on his face as his eyes flicker from hers to her neck and back again. He takes a step back, his hand pulling away from her neck, and the loss of him holding her and pressing up against her feels wrong somehow.

Sansa reaches out and grabs his arms. “Please,” she whispers. She isn’t even quite sure what she means. Please stay close, please feed, please take whatever you want? Please don’t run from me? Maybe she means all of those things at once.

“I want nothing from you, little bird,” Sandor finally says, his voice raw and vulnerable.

“We both know that’s not true,” Sansa replies, but releases her grip.

“Aye. But what I want, you aren’t ready to give, if you’ll ever be.” His expression is softer now, haunted and open like it was when he told her to come with him, when he said perhaps he would head north knowing she would pick up on the meaning of his words. The hand that had gripped her neck is now caressing her face - so gentle, did any of the Lannisters know he could be so gentle? 

“Then just have a taste. To tide you over.”

* * *


End file.
